


[k minific dump]

by copperiisulfate



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:57:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9709319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperiisulfate/pseuds/copperiisulfate
Summary: a catch-all for stuff from random corners not previously (cross-)posted, with various ships, ratings, warnings, experimental stylistics etc. see individual chapter notes.





	1. cathexis

**Author's Note:**

> izumo/tatara; pg; written for day one of izutotsu week on tumblr: past/future/change

 

 

It becomes a game of sorts over the years.

‘Fairies?’ 

_No._

‘Angels?’ 

_No._

‘Santa Claus?’ You try this one, mostly for kicks.

Tatara laughs and laughs. ‘Not even a little,’ he says. ‘Never had the chance.’

 

 

*

 

 

Another day, you ask: ‘ghosts?’

And Tatara says, ‘There’s no point to them. Not really. Not for the people who are gone. Maybe for the ones who are left behind.’

 

 

*

 

 

‘Magic?’

‘I think so. Not in the voodoo magic way, although that could be real, who knows? But magic in other small ways? Sure! The way people make people smile; the way the light hits just right and makes you fall in love with a place or a person.’

 

 

*

 

 

‘What about love at first sight? Do you believe in that?’

‘I met you when I was fourteen,’ he says, matter off factly, ‘so yes, I think it’s probably a thing.’

With your chin resting against your palm, elbow on the bar counter, you try to keep a straight face but end up failing spectacularly, end up grinning against your hand instead. 

‘That’s actually pretty smooth,’ you say.

‘I’m being serious!’ He insists on it, trying not to laugh.

‘As ridiculous as it is--everything about you really,’ you say, ‘I know.’

 

 

*

 

 

'Fate?’ You ask him this once, sitting on a park-bench, both of you watching from a distance as Mikoto pushes Anna on a swing-set.

‘I don’t know,’ he sighs. ‘Sometimes. Maybe. Might have a love-hate relationship with that. Depends on what it is. And sometimes _choice_ just sounds better.’

 

 

*

 

 

In the dead of the night when neither of you can sleep: 

‘What about yourself?’

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he says, voice small, draws the covers tighter around himself and tucks his head under your chin. He doesn’t look at you. ‘Anything else.  _Please_.’

You let out a breath and try to keep your heart from shattering, and then promptly try not to think about it. 

 

 

*

 

 

And in the morning, under the first sleepy rays of sun, filtering through your window:

‘What about _this_ ,’ you ask, fingers brushing the ridge of his left shoulder blade, the pad of your thumb resting on the lower curve of the tattooed flame.

‘It’s the only thing sometimes,’ he says with a laugh that’s a little breathless, a little desperate. 'Yes. _Always. Yes._ ’

 

 

*

 

 

You sit on the roof of the bar one summer day, watch the sun sink in the distance, disappear behind Shizume’s skyline.

He is warm beside you, shoulder to shoulder, sitting wordlessly, watching your smoke rings float into the dusky sky.

‘And this,’ he says quietly, finally, taking your hand, eyes still on the sky. ‘You didn’t ask but, most of all, this.’

 

 


	2. third declension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mikoto/izumo; g; written for day five of mikoto/izumo week on tumblr: loss.

 

 

in his hands is a universe: fire and blood, simple and monochrome. things are black or white. they live or they die. mutual exclusivity reigns supreme.

in his head, the picture is different: friends and foes and and meaning and being and lasting and dying are blurring together in some echoing cacophony that no one has yet learned how to decipher, not perfectly, not consistently. it feels forever like a learning curve, an eternal work in progress.

in the mornings, he is difficult to rouse, drunk on his dreams, on oblivion and the bliss of ignorance, and you could wake him but what is the point of it all? you let him rest when you can, when he can, for there is no rest for the wicked but you want to try to allow for it anyway, best you can anyhow.

in the nights, he is watchful, waiting, restless, and you have choices before you and you could make good ones. instead, you choose to strike a match and start a fire. more accurately, you feed it. more accurately, you don’t bother, not even once, to put it out.

he returns to you at dawn, bringing embers to your feet, like his head falling careless in your lap, like the falling of the leaves from the trees and the rain and the stars from the sky, at the end of the world-- _cataclysmic_ , he is--

_apocalyptic_ , he is--

and _ending_ , he is--

(ending and ending and, with him, you are ending too--it’s a bit of a work of art while it lasts and you have always been so easy for the aesthetics anyway--so impressionistic, clinging to it where you saw it, wanted to etch it into your memory like a monet, all rigorous beauty from afar, all deathly tragedy up close)

_dying_ in someone else’s arms--

and you wish you were there, wish you could hold him just _one last time,_ tell him _how beautiful,_ tell him  _thank you,_ tell him how wondrous, how miraculous of a creature you had the fortune of both seeing and being, of becoming, a man-made firestorm, reckoning incarnate.

 

 

 

(a faraway conversation: _in the end was, it worth it?_

_you made it worth it. you made it. you made it._ )

 

 

*

 

 

and the years go by and one day, you swim in the coast of kanto, where a crater shattered the lay of the land a long time ago.

you put your head under the water for fifteen seconds (or _years and years_ ) and close your eyes and all around you is saltwater but you try to remember how he tasted. you try to remember that old music in your head -the song is still there, though the melody sometimes changes--there’s a memory wild and potent in your bloodstream: the sight of him standing in front of the ocean.

and you think, suddenly, desperately: _darling, darling, darling, come home._

you come up for air and it’s jarring in so many ways but this is the world you have now, the world without him, even as there’s still the sound of amusement, a weary laugh, against your ear.

_this is your world,_ he’s still saying, always saying, always keeping you going. _get it while it’s hot._

and so you open your eyes, and you know that he’s right.

even though it is always colder now than it used to be--it’s still _yours_ , the gift he gave, and so you keep it, and so you go.

 


	3. break and enter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mikoto+izumo+tatara(+anna); pg; written for kusanagi's bday 2k14

This year, his birthday present happens to be a six a.m. breaking and entering of his apartment.

(Yes, okay, so they have keys, but it is the _principle_ of the thing.)

Before he can think to react, Tatara's hollering out a singsong _good morning_ from the entrance and the sound of heavy steps on parquet echoes through to the bedroom.

He opens his eyes to a blur of red hovering overhead, squints, and doesn't really need his contacts to make out the shape of Mikoto's head.

"It's _six fucking a.m.,_ " Izumo groans. "You don't actually think I chose a career in bartending because I enjoy being woken up at _six fucking a.m._ "

"No," Tatara says serenely. "You chose a career in bartending because you love us."

Tatara sets something seemingly heavy on the bedside table, covered in a glitzy paper bag and then showcases the contents of the bag which is an equally glitzy box with a triple layer strawberry cake inside. The deco looks store-bought but the cake looks home-made and home-iced, squiggly birthday greeting and smiley face and all. 

"Made from scratch by yours truly," he says, quirking a thumb to his side where Izumo sees nothing. "I helped, of course," and Izumo sits up a little higher to see Anna finally enter his line of vision.

"Happy birthday, Izumo," she says, beaming up at him, and Izumo tries to mentally withdraw all the swearing instantaneously.

"King...tried to help," Tatara starts but quickly waves it off, "--but we won't talk about that! Rest assured, the bar kitchen is fine. Just um. Ignore the scorch marks on the bottom left cabinet." Then, turning to Anna swiftly, "Right," he grins. "On to breakfast! Would _you_ like to help again?" he does not attempt to re-recruit Mikoto.

Mikoto mutters something under his breath about pre-heating being for idiots and face-plants first very firmly in the vacant half of Izumo's bed.

"You heard him," Mikoto mumbles, to no one in particular. "Six fucking a.m. See ya in the p.m."

Tatara and Anna make for the kitchen while Izumo sighs, thinks, it's way too early for this. "The cabinet, Mikoto?"

"S' nothing. Six fucking a.m., remember?" He grabs for Izumo's arm and tugs him back down. "Take a birthday nap. You've earned it." he says it so seriously that Izumo would suspect an attempt at manipulation and distraction from the topic at hand if Mikoto was the type to invest energy in something like that.

Izumo wants to kick him in the head a little because it will be the third time he's gotten the woodwork varnished this year but that requires more effort than it does to comply. Also, the cake is staring him in the face when he turns on his side, and it looks fairly delicious, which softens the blow a little.

The next time he wakes up is an hour and half later to the smell of eggs and pancakes and possibly some fried meat business happening in his apartment.

Mikoto's still sleeping like the dead when Izumo dares to explore his own kitchen, which is thankfully still in tact. 

By some wonder, Mikoto joins them not long after, like three hours before the p.m. kicks in. He sits down, yawning, and grabs the nearest mug which happens to be Tatara's, downs whatever's in it and then winces because  _"C_ _innamon?_ In _coffee? Why_ _\--"_

Tatara insists on candles on the cake despite Izumo being really not fond of the idea what with there being three walking fire hazards in an enclosed space and yeah, no, they _really_ do not need more reasons.

To no one's surprise, Tatara wins out and Mikoto lights them with an alarming degree of delight, looking awake and alive for the first time since he stumbled in. There is as acoustic guitar rendition of ~Happy birthday dear Kusanagi-san~ and Anna claps when Izumo blows out the candles, knows he's getting too old for this but it's mostly to humour her anyway.

It's one of the rare days where Tatara forgets his camera, and he makes a point to sulk about it a little later while Mikoto's smoking on the balcony and Anna's asleep in Izumo's lap.

Izumo tells him to stop being silly.

He isn't likely to forget this anyway. 


	4. take me back to your bed (love you so much that it hurts my head)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> established fushimi/hidaka; g; AU in which hidaka knows about double-agent!fushimi from the start

 

Under the guise of stillness, Hidaka’s nerves are starting to get contagious, and half of Fushimi just wants to get the hell out of here and on with it before the trepidation takes over the air altogether. 

Fushimi curls his fingers into a fist at his side, hisses: "Will you stop freaking out?"

(The more frightening bit of it all is that the other half of him doesn’t really feel like moving at all, inertia too heavy, his feet on the ground feel like drying concrete.)

"I’m not. Just." Hidaka closes his eyes, breathes in then breathes out. "Look. Be careful, yeah?" he laughs, a little shaky. "It took three kings and their clans to hold down two of their J-ranks. What if they don’t buy it?"

"What," Fushimi says, "that I’m a traitor? Why? Wouldn’t be the first time." He grins, a little twist in it, a little cruelty, "Never quite thought it would come in handy like this though."

"You know what they’ll do, right? Make you come after us in all likelihood. They’ll make you prove it," and Hidaka’s eyeing the door behind Fushimi’s back. "You think you could do that?"

"Maybe," fushimi says, "I’ll come fight you personally, to make it convincing enough, if you like." It earns him a smirk, finally.

"You should," Hidaka says. "Would you also like me to let you win?" And before Fushimi has a chance to tell him that he’s sort of hilarious or react otherwise, Hidaka gives his collar a tug, says in a hush, " _One for good luck_ ," and kisses him quick.

"Luck is for the weak," Fushimi murmurs back, though try as he might to tell himself otherwise, he’s hardly been anything but. 

He has got to go, any moment now really, but it’s not before pulling Hidaka in by his neck, close, one final time.

 


	5. they'll say you could do anything; they'll say that i was clever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mikoto/izumo; pg; if we go down then we go down together

 

he’s drifting in and out of sleep and everything about it is fitful, restless, leaves your heart in your throat from watching it alone. 

later, you wake up from sleep, saying his name, reaching out into the air above you and grasping at – nothing.

of course, he will not be found in the air. he is beside you, and you seem to have woken him because he takes your hand regardless, tucks it below his head, his neck now resting against the bones of your wrist, in some kind of silly unconscious motion, and falls back asleep. 

you think that it can’t possibly be comfortable but he seems to drift off in no time at all.  
  
along with mikoto, your hand also falls asleep, pins and needles creeping upon your forearm but you don’t move; you hardly breathe.  
  
you turn on your side in the morning and somehow he’s tossed midway through the night and dislodged your arm. the blood is flowing back through it well and good, as it should. 

you lay there and soak in the stillness, for minutes, maybe hours. realistically, it must be somewhere in between. you do it long enough for him to wake because it’s a rare day when you can afford it without the usual preparation for the impending bustling downstairs.

the sun is a little bit in your face and you squint against it to see him when he yawns. you take the hand that had been held captive earlier and trace two fingers over his clavicle, then sternum, then ribcage.  
  
he says nothing, nearly does nothing, except you know well enough to catch when it’s not nothing: the slightest motion forwards, arching inwards, a slow stir and a gradual unfurling. watching him wake up is watching him come to life. every morning is luxury, an indulgence, an post-impressionistic artwork of sorts.  
  
and fair enough, you were always the biggest fucking hopeless romantic of the lot but even then, _even then,_  every time you wonder how you could ever have been prepared for _this_.  
  
your fingertips reach the jut of a hipbone and he’s sleep-addled but awake enough now to respond. when he strikes back, it is without mercy, a slow throw of his body against yours, his whole weight and his whole self against yours, and his slow grin is unapologetic, as it should be. 

the rightness in it lets you know within your bones that this is the _only way_  it should ever be.  
  
once, there had been reluctance, questions in the motions even if never in the words.  
  
_can you carry this? are you sure? are you_ sure _?_  
  
mostly, you’re glad that _that_ rotten phase is over.  
  
yes. you can carry this. 

yes, _of course,_ you can carry this. 

you can carry this, will carry this, and carry this and _more_.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or: only this ship can turn me into That Person ie. the kind of person that has resorted to using lyrics for summaries apparently -- both that and the title borrowed from the chainsmokers - paris
> 
> this was written for asofterworld meme on tumblr, prompt #32:  _I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you.  I can think up some clever lines, if you’d prefer.  But I wanted to say that, first. (None of those lines seemed to be about you or me.)_


End file.
